


Just holding on for tonight

by devilscut



Category: Supernatural, Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angel Healing, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canonical Character Death, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Memory Alteration, Minor Violence, Non-Consensual Touching, Past Child Abuse, Sparks, Underage Drinking, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-05
Updated: 2019-10-06
Packaged: 2020-11-24 09:23:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 20,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20905355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/devilscut/pseuds/devilscut
Summary: Dean Winchester is in Beacon Hills for Hunter business when he encounters a young man in a bar that needs his help in a bad situation.  Little does he know that this meeting will help him deal with some of the demons (not literally) from his own past and open his eyes to a part of him that he wasn't even aware of.  For Dean, a new friendship and a change in an old one to something more just maybe what this Hunter needs and deserves.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BeniMaiko](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeniMaiko/gifts).

> This has been on my mind for a while, so it's my first crossover and these 'verses just fit so well it would be a crime not to let them merge. I'm not going to specify seasons, just know that this is set after the nogitsune in 'Teen Wolf' and Garth's reveal as a werewolf in 'Supernatural'. Some of the origins of supernatural abilities/creatures are my own thoughts so just be kind and go with it.
> 
> In mythology from India, the vetala is a ghoul or evil spirit that haunts graveyards and possesses corpses. They are said to originate from the souls of children not given proper burial rites.
> 
> The title is from Sia's 'Chandelier'.
> 
> For BeniMaiko who I know enjoys both Teen Wolf and Supernatural (or did) - this one has always been for you, it just took me a loooooooooong time to get it done. :D

[Draw the line - Aerosmith](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-o2nfc0H6PI)

The old blue jeep stood out like a sore thumb in the roadside bar’s parking lot as Dean Winchester pulled off the main road and drove his Baby towards an empty spot. 

A cliché, but undeniably true. He couldn’t explain exactly why it stood out. It’s age and slightly battered appearance was equalled if not bettered by a number of other surrounding vehicles, but there was just something about it that stood out like a beacon of naivety when the rest of the parking lot was filled with the trucks and cars - all with exceptionally big trunks - that he expected of the clientele of an establishment known throughout the Hunter world as ‘The Pit’. 

Ghostly fingers trace shivers down his spine at the name and normally he would’ve steered clear of a dive with that handle, Hunter friendly or not, as it brought back too many unpleasant memories, but he needed a drink and no hassles. Not tonight.

The Impala rumbled threateningly as he parked a couple of spaces over from the anomaly. Baby was a beast, the deep seated vibration of her powerful engine giving warning that she wouldn’t put up with any cheap trash parked next to her, nor any potential car thieves or jerks who liked to bruise and gouge beautiful things just because they could with their car doors or keys. 

Switching the ignition off, Dean sat for a moment letting the sound of the Impala’s engine ticking over settle him. He was thirty clicks outside of Beacon Hills, just on the fringes of Argent territory. Normally, he wouldn’t travel this far from where his gear was stowed away in his cheap motel room closer to town, but at times like these the Hunter community came together and it would make a change to not have to lie about basically everything like he would in a civilian joint. His lips quirked, self-mocking, because even when he told the truth no one believed him.

Opening the door he swung his legs out, avoiding the big puddle on the blacktop, calves and thighs twinging like mad as he stood up. He’d been driving for hours and had only briefly stretched his legs at the motel when he checked in before hauling ass to what in more recent times was known as a Hunter-friendly bar and damn…he was getting old. His muscles ached clear down to his bones, shoulders and legs tight. Even his ass ached and not in the good, recently plowed, sexy times way either.

The night air was moist and cool, carrying with it all the scents and odours that a joint like this produced. Stale piss from the darkest corners of the rain-soaked parking lot, the rich hoppy scent of beer and the greasy aroma of food. Fried of course, it wouldn’t matter what it was as long as it could fit into the fry basket and get dropped into the vat of hot cooking oil. It made his mouth water and his stomach growl. 

An earlier shower that had passed through the area had left the black tarmac glittering wetly, reflecting the brilliantly lit garish neon beer signs either side of the entrance of the bar. As welcoming and bright as they were, they struggled to hold back the shadows that encroached from the thick forest that backed up to the sprawling rectangular building. The same forest that lined either side of the main road that led all the way to Beacon Hills.

Pulling out his phone, Dean scrolled through his increasingly shortening list of contacts. As it dials out he stretches his back, groaning in relief as he feels things pop, releasing all the tension he’d been carrying over the many miles. Staring at the nearby tree line waiting for his call to connect, Dean realises the longer he stands there the more he can smell other scents too. Natural ones of growth and decay - raw wood, rich damp earth and crushed pine needles - not unpleasant, more a stark reminder just how close to the wilderness they really were in this place.

“Hey.” Sammy answers with a yawn and Dean winces. The time difference just enough that Dean had forgotten his brother would be more than likely asleep, particularly if he’d downed a couple of painkillers. “Made it okay huh?”

“Yeah.” Looking around the parking lot, Dean sighs. “Wish you were here…this is gonna suck big time.”

“Me too. I know you don’t like this kinda thing, but it’s Chris.” Regret threads heavily through his little brother’s voice. 

“Yeah I know. He’s the only Argent I’d do this for though, the rest are all crazy motherfuckers.” A little smile tugs at the corners of Dean’s mouth hearing the loud snort of laughter through the phone.

“Yeah, yeah…Kate was always sweet on you, she really wanted your balls in her trophy case.”

“Eww…that woman had more than enough nut sacks in her collection thanks very much, she didn’t need mine and I wasn’t offering.” Dean shivers, Chris Argent was an okay guy, but his Dad and his sister had been off their collective obsessed rockers.

“When you see him—“ Sammy pauses for such a long moment Dean almost thinks they’ve been disconnected, but he can still hear his brother’s breathing before he says gruffly. “Tell him I’m sorry. Sorry I couldn’t be there and sorry for…you know.”

“I will. I think he’ll understand though…might even get a laugh you know when I tell him exactly how you broke your ankle.” Dean snickers meanly. He can laugh at it now that the fear that had skewered through his chest when he’d heard Sammy’s cry of pain earlier in the week is a memory and he knows his brother is safe, tucked in his bed in the bunker.

“It was a stampede.” Sammy huffs.

“There were only three cows, Sam…hardly a stampede and you were running from them when you tripped.”

“Well excuse me, I wasn’t expecting a so-called haunted barn to be occupied with actual farm animals rather than dark magic demon summoners and besides…they came at me.”

“Nah…they liked you, took one look at your big gigantor hands and wanted you to milk ‘em. Grab onto them udders and squee—“

“Shut up.” Dean laughs at the outraged squawk Sammy makes and he’s pretty sure he can feel the scorch marks from his little brother fuming through his phone with the power of his big nerdy brain. 

“Come on Sam.” All he hears in response is a rude noise, but it’s not long before he hears Sammy join in. It feels good to laugh like this, makes him realise how much he misses him. Has missed him since he got in Baby and started driving without his brother riding shotgun and bitching about the music Dean plays. Sometimes it scares him how entwined their lives have become, at the lengths that either of them will go to for the other, but he can’t deny it, can’t fight it – even if he wanted to. 

It’s the same feeling he’s grown to have for Cas and he’s pretty sure Sammy feels the same about the angel, although somehow he doesn’t think his brother dreams about him like he does. And God forbid if Sammy does, he sure as hell doesn’t want to know his baby brother wakes up with vague memories of deep blue eyes and chapped bitten lips that leave him hard and burning or worse, aching and empty as well. He’s grateful that his brother’s not asked if he’s heard from the absent angel yet, because it would be a resounding ‘no’ and Dean doesn’t want to think about the aching twinge he gets in his chest when he works out exactly how long it’s been since he has.

“I think it’ll be a long while before he laughs again.” Sammy says eventually, soft and thoughtful. Dragging his attention back to the here and now.

“Yeah. I know.” Dean rubs the back of his neck with his free hand.

Grief is something he’s dealt with too many times over the years and most of the time he can push it down, lock it away tight or be like his father and focus on revenge, but dealing with someone else’s agony makes him uncomfortable. Real uncomfortable. Threatens the tight grip he has on his own emotions to witness it, makes him wonder if he’s somehow lacking in something integral to how the rest of humanity grieves and offers consolation. Dean freely admits his little brother is a hell of a lot better at all the sharing and caring bullshit. If he had Sammy here with him, he’d be his buffer.

“Okay. I’ll let you get back to sleep. Stay off your feet and use your crutches if you need to and cut back on the alcohol if you’re taking painkillers. Right?”

“Yeah, yeah.” He can hear the amusement in Sammy’s voice at his mother hen ways, but he’s been doing it for far too long to quit now. “See you in a couple of days.”

“Okay and Sam—“ Dean stops abruptly.

“What?” Sammy says worriedly as the silence lingers.

Dean moos, obnoxiously long and loud, down the phone.

“Jerk.” 

“Bitch.” Dean says affectionately, still sniggering as he ends the call.

Pocketing his phone, Dean checks the clip in his Taurus before he slips the gun into the back of his jeans. He’d done it so often it’s pure reflex, feeling it snug against his spine is as natural as wearing layers to disguise any weapon bulges or pulling on his shitkickers every morning and slipping a blade in between his sock and the boot leather that wrapped tight around his ankle.

Walking towards the entrance he can hear the dull murmuring of voices, the occasional shrill laugh and the clink of glasses all battling to be heard over the sound of Aerosmith’s ‘Draw the line’ coming from the jukebox. Nodding in approval at the song choice, Dean pushes the double doors open and crosses the threshold, taking note of the protective sigils carved into the mountain ash frame of the door. To anyone else they’d just be a pretty pattern.

The chatter silences for a brief moment as he enters and moves quickly away from the doorway, so as not to present an easy target by the strategically placed bright fluoro overhead that’s intended to dazzle and spotlight anyone entering. Quickly scoping out the room as he heads to the long pitted and scarred timber bar against the wall – where were the exits? Who was here? Who was the most dangerous person in the room? Experience and well-honed instincts gave him the answers almost instantly.

Aside from the entrance, there’s a door behind the bar with a round viewing window in it, through which Dean can see the kitchen and beyond the steam and cooking flames there’s a partially open back door. Midway down the wall opposite the entrance is a door marked with generic male/female symbols for the bathrooms which he’d need to actually enter to determine if there were any exits from the building that way and in the far corner on the right, past some pool tables is a bilious green exit sign flickering haphazardly above a fire door. 

The majority of people in the room he recognises as Hunters, had even worked with some of them, like Jake in his battered Stetson at the far corner table raising his beer in salute at Dean. The last job they’d been on together, he’d given them a helping hand with a Wendigo further north from here last Fall. The ex-wildcatter was a good man, shit at Latin, but could do things with C4 and a detonator that gave Dean a hard on. Others he knew of by reputation. 

The spiky haired older blonde with the rakish black eye patch over her left eye at the end of the bar - a lone shot glass and a half-empty bottle in front of her - had to be Jude. He knew of her only by reputation. She’d lost the eye to a Master vamp about six months ago when she’d single-handedly taken down its nest after it had kidnapped and turned her partner. Jude hadn’t been prepared to wait for help to arrive before going in to get her out, but it had been too late. Brave and foolhardy, normally just how he liked ‘em, but he didn’t think he’d be working a job with her any time soon, definitely not if he had Sammy or Cas with him. By the empty eyes that met and held his as she filled her glass and knocked back a shot, he could tell she was just going through the motions and waiting for the hunt that would kill her. Suicide by monster.

As for the most dangerous person in the room. He didn’t feel anything, no surprise or satisfaction, knowing that it was himself. It was a numb awareness, one that let him know who was carrying and where, who was his biggest threat and who he could count on to back him up if necessary. He knew that he was being equally assessed by the number of heads that turned in his direction.

Dean sat at the bar, letting his eyes adjust to the dim lighting in the room. Within moments he had a shot of whiskey and a cold beer in front of him. He could get used to it here, he decided, there were a whole lotta pluses as far as he could tell despite the unfortunate name. The quick service from the bartender, with the USMC tattoo peeking out from under the sleeve of his t-shirt - who didn’t waste time in idle chit chat and was keeping a close eye on the room in general - the good music, Aerosmith had clicked over to Bob Seger’s ‘Travelin’ man' and from what he could smell coming from the kitchen out back, hopefully good food. Slowly he could feel the tension slide right on out of him.

Turning around he surveyed the room. He’d not been overly concerned about having his back to it considering the mirrors that lined the back of the bar, running its length they had reflected every corner. There was no way anyone would’ve been able to sneak up on him. Still there was always some fool who held a grudge or thought that the Winchester’s were losing their edge and would try something on, better to deter them now by watching out for them head on. Slinging back the shot, Dean savoured the fiery burn down his throat, the warmth that bloomed in his chest.

Satisfied that most of the people at the tables were too busy with their own conversations, he let his eyes drift over the crowd, almost a habit now to see if there was anyone that he could scratch an itch with. It was just a low grade awareness of his dick and balls, not the stark heavy throb of full blown need and arousal fuelled by adrenalin he usually felt right after a hunt. Right now he could take it or leave it, lately it seemed he been leaving it a lot, but he never missed an opportunity to check if anyone piqued his interest. Didn’t matter male or female, it’d been a long time since he’d quibbled over where his comfort came from or from who. 

A couple of waitresses caught his attention as they moved through the crowd serving drinks, slipping between the tables and easily evading groping hands with a sharp word or a coy wink depending on their mood. Catching the eye of the curvy, brunette one, Dean let his lips curl into what Sammy called his ‘slutty smile’, the one that promised everything and nothing all at the same time – every pleasure she could ever want before hitting the road and disappearing from her life forever. Strangely, the coy little smile and flicker of interest as she ran her eyes over his body in return left him cold and he quickly looked away not wanting to consider how frequently that response had happened lately. 

Beyond the seated area was a large opening that lead into a second space, an alcove area where a couple of pool tables stood. Low hanging lights hung over the tables illuminating them brightly, Dean squinted, unable to see clearly who the surrounding figures were that moved around in the shadows. Picking up his beer chaser he skirted around the packed tables to check out that back room. For a start, he didn’t like not knowing who was back there and if they checked out…well, he was always up for a game to replenish his cash reserves.

Slipping into the back room unobtrusively was pretty easy as most of the spectator’s attention was focused on the second table, closest to the fire exit, an unexpected tension surrounding it that made the air thrum against his skin. He still couldn’t quite see who was playing, the low hanging light shade that ran the length of the table cast a bright light over the green felt and the contrasting shadows concealed the people that stood on the far side, but he could see the hands of one player holding a cue, the end of it presumably resting on the wooden floor. 

They were clean and strong looking hands. Even with bitten down nails, those slender fingers made him hiss softly in appreciation at their length and his ass clench tight as he took in the plaid shirt sleeves rolled back to reveal lean corded forearms that bunched and flexed as he batted the cue stick from one hand to the other like a playful kitten before reaching down for the full shot glass that sat on the edge of the table. Swallowing a mouthful of beer Dean never let his eyes waver from the view.

“You sure you wanna do this?” A slurring, masculine voice that held amusement, sharp and jagged, asked aloud. It was low and sounded young, too young to be in a place like this. Dean twitched uneasily. “’Cause strangely enough, I’ve won every game so far.”

He didn’t hear a response, but there must’ve been some silent communication between the kid and whoever he was playing. 

“Your funeral.” There’s a catch in his voice as he snickers harshly, the words tainted with bitterness, as he slams the empty shot glass neatly upside down next to the four others that sit there. The kid’s opponent is an older guy, going by the silver threaded through his hair, his back to Dean as he breaks, balls clacking loudly as they connect. 

He drops a ball into the far left pocket, sinks the next easily mid-pocket and a third in the opposite middle pocket, but on his fourth shot mishits his target so the ball ricochets uselessly back into the centre of the table giving his opponent a clear shot. Whoever the kid’s playing is good, because after years of being around the tables in every pool hall and bar across the country, Dean recognises instantly when someone’s deliberately tanking their shots regardless of how well they’re covering it and this guy is good, really good. Dean’s better.

Indicating the pocket he’d chosen with the cue, the kid stops for a moment before saying to no one in particular. “Hey…finally. That’s my song.”

Dean could catch the strains of a new song playing from the jukebox “can’t feel anything, when will I learn, I push it down, I push it down…” so different to the others that had been playing before that he’s not even sure if he likes it. Wonders how the hell it ended up on the playlist for a bar like this. All he knows is that the singer’s voice is beautiful and tormented and somehow it speaks to him on a visceral level. He wonders what it says to the young man that selected it.

As the kid dips down to line up his shot, mouth moving silently in sync with the lyrics, Dean’s breath catches in his throat as he catches his first glimpse of his face. Yeah, he was young. No more than 16 or 17 for sure, his dark brown hair rumpled, standing up in spiking clusters, as though he’s been running his hands through it repeatedly. The low-hanging overhead light shone on too-pale skin dotted with random milk chocolate moles. Heavy lidded, whiskey brown eyes framed by a fringe of long dark lashes studied the table before him, the delicate skin beneath them was tinged with purple. Not from physical abuse, Dean was certain of that, he recognised the signs of stress and exhaustion all too well.

There was something about him, something that Dean couldn’t quite put his finger on and it was puzzling. The kid was a mass of contradictions, he looked soul bruised and innocence almost lost. Almost, but not completely, and within those alcohol hazed brown eyes Dean could see an inherent strength that fought to not be swept away by the pain and grief that shimmered there as well. The kid was on the cusp, even if he didn’t know it, his very being screamed out loud and clear that he was ready for either his debauchment or salvation to forget whatever was tormenting him.

So very tempting. 

The kid was beautiful and from a quick glance around he wasn’t the only one who thought so. The handful of Hunters, male and female, that were watching the game progress were following every movement of the lean, rangy body that was half draped across the table avidly. Not that it surprised Dean, Hunters were quite broadminded about gender roles and the range of human sexuality – living so close to having your life brutally cut short every day, you quickly realised it didn’t matter, just having a warm body to hold and be held by during the night was enough.

The kid’s tongue flickers out to swipe over his full lower lip before biting into the pink flesh with white even teeth in concentration. Dean could’ve sworn half the room groaned aloud, himself included. He’d heard the term ‘cocksucking lips’ directed at himself enough times over the years and never fully understood why, never able to see it, but if his mouth looked even half as wide and lush as this boy’s, well fuck…he understood a helluva lot better now. Guilt ripples through him, he remembers being that age and being ogled by men and women, adults, who should’ve damn well known better and the sick, jittery feeling that would sit in his stomach – half-nauseous, half-excited at being the focus of such attention until he’d learned that he could use their desires to his own benefit.

“Let’s go again.” A deeper masculine voice croons, a pitch to it that instantly sets Dean’s nerves on edge and he realises that in his distraction the kid had won, pocketing consecutive balls before sinking the black eight ball. “Five hundred.”

“Dude. I just won and not enough to cover that. So I think I’m gonna head on home before I puke.” The boy spins unsteadily on his heel, dropping the pool cue onto the deep green felt table top and swiping up the little pile of bills that sits on one corner. The much older man that had been speaking steps into view as he grabs the teenager’s arm. 

Classically handsome, with a straight nose and strong jaw covered with a neatly trimmed greying stubble, faded denim blue eyes and a slashing silvery white scar across his cheek that pulled down the corner of his mouth and gave him a rugged masculine appeal that would’ve been lacking without. 

Dean grimaced in recognition, blowing out a shaky breath. The scar was from a silver knife, the Hunter’s own blade turned on him by the Vetala pair he’d been hunting before he’d been able to kill them. It was a story he’d heard a number of times when he was younger, even younger than this kid.

Roy Greer. A contemporary of his Dad’s, not a friend, just someone his old man used to trade information with and share war stories over a brew if they’d happened to find themselves in the same dive. Much to Dean’s shame, he’d been a bit dazzled by the older man’s good looks and outrageous stories of the hunt when he’d first met him. That had quickly changed. The Hunter always taking the opportunity to touch him when his Dad wasn’t looking. Dropping his hand on Dean’s shoulder, heavy and possessive - squeezing like he was checking if he was ripe – grinning at him with far too many teeth showing. It had always made his skin crawl. 

Regardless of how outwardly good-looking the man was, how he could make his Dad laugh with all his jokes and funny stories, Dean could tell there was something off with him. Something really off in the way he looked at him and even worse at Sammy that had always made his teenage-self move to shield his younger brother from the other man’s view.

A vile sensory memory, bitter and sour floods his mouth making him want to spit and retch before he choked on it.

“Now, now…you gotta give me a chance to win my money back and if you do lose we can work something out for the shortfall…some kind of trade.” The Hunter wheedles, his thumb stroking over the kid’s bicep in a possessive caress. Dean’s throat closes up, going tight and his chest aches savagely. He’d heard those last few words before, near enough identical. Heard and in his desperation not realised the deal he’d made that long ago night outside a local Hunter bar near where they’d been staying in Indiana or was it Idaho, he couldn’t remember exactly – didn’t want to really – but, it was a state starting with ‘I’ he knew that much. 

His Dad had been on a job and out of touch for over two weeks and ten year old Sammy had gotten sick. Sick enough to need a doctor that Dean had no way of paying for. When his Dad had gotten back a week later, Sammy still pale and shaky from the fever, Dean hadn’t been able to say a word - his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth with shame and mortification. He hadn’t even known whether to be relieved or furious that his Dad didn’t even ask how Dean had been able to pay the bill or for the medication, just ordered them to pack and be ready to leave in twenty.

“Way you’ve been playing Steve…ya got nothing to lose.”

Dean sucks in a harsh breath, pulse racing with remembered fear and disgust. God, the kid had everything to lose, he didn’t know who he was dealing with. Didn’t know that he’d obviously been set up to get to this point, so he would end up being in Greer’s debt, because Dean remembers all too well his Dad refusing to play any games with him, calling him a ‘shark’.

“You’d think so wouldn’t you after the past couple of weeks, hell the past year, but I actually do.” Surprisingly, Steve easily jerks his arm out of the older Hunter’s grip, stronger than he first appeared.

“Huh?” Greer scowls in puzzlement.

“I do have something to lose.” The teenager sounds nowhere near as drunk as before as he explains, eyes alight with mischief and a vicious goading smile. “Self-respect for starters, followed by a clean STD screen.” 

The kid’s body stiffens and Dean realises in bewilderment that he’s bracing himself, ready to take a hit. Why the heck he’s trying to provoke someone enough to take a swing is beyond him.

It takes a moment for the crowd to pick up on the insult, but when the snickers start Greer flushes an ugly red, puffs out his chest and grabs the kid with rough, greedy hands and pushes him violently out the exit door. A couple of the others are set to follow when the paralysis of memory that had held Dean in place ends and he moves to the door before they can grab their drinks and watch the free entertainment or worse…join in.

“Back off.” Dean snaps at them and whether they recognise him or it’s simply very apparent how pissed off he is they hold up their hands in appeasement and slink back towards the bar room.

Dean opens the exit door and steps out into the parking lot. There’s no one in sight except dark shadows and his heart thumps erratically in his chest as he searches the darkness. The guilt is running thick and heavy through his veins, pulse throbbing painfully in his neck. He’d tried to forget and done everything to avoid encountering the other man, but in his blind quest to suppress everything to do with Roy Greer, it hadn’t occurred to him that he was still preying on other kids, other teenage boys. If it wasn’t opportunistic like he’d thought…fuck…in the twenty years since, how many had there been? Bile sits at the back of his throat, bitter and burning.

“GET YOUR FUCKING HANDS OFF ME.” 

It’s the kid shouting. Not scared, not yet anyway, just angry, so very angry. It’s almost unnatural for someone his age to be screaming with such rage rather than fear in this situation, almost like he’s dealt with much worse and isn’t intimidated in the slightest. Dean lets the unsettling thought go as he focuses. The sounds are coming from the far corner of the building, closest to the woods, and Dean moves quickly and silently, pulling the Taurus from the small of his back and taking comfort from the smooth mother of pearl grip that quickly warms under his palm.

“You fucking owe me kid. All those shots, what did you think was going to happen?” Greer snarls as Dean rounds the corner to see him backhand the kid who reels, arms flailing wildly before he steadies and springs towards the bigger, older man with a snarl and punches him with a practiced solid right hook that makes Dean wince in admiration as it connects with Greer’s nose with a distinct crack. Broken.

Greer bellows in pain, enraged he grabs the struggling kid in a bear hug, pinning his arms to his sides and with his extra thirty pounds of muscle starts to push him face first to the wall. Dean lifts his gun, pointing it at Greer’s head and whether it’s the movement or simply his Hunter instincts being tripped, the other man whirls with the teenager still in his arms, using him as a human shield and the same silver knife he’d used on the Vetalas is in his hand, the blade at the kid’s throat. Greer peeks around the boy’s head, his eyes burning with a dark cunning.

“Let him go.” Dean growls out, throat raw with fury, knowing that if he hadn’t been here…if the kid had kept on fighting he may not have just been violated, but seriously hurt as well. The need to protect him is so overwhelmingly powerful that his hands shake from having to restrain himself from taking such a risky shot.

“Well, well, well.” Greer looks him over, from head to toe and a disturbing light shines in his eyes. “Dean Winchester.”

It doesn’t escape him that the kid stiffens and gives him an inscrutable look from beneath his long lashes as though he recognises the name, but that’s the least of his worries at the moment, so he shrugs it off.

“I swear to God, Greer if you don’t let him go right now I will end you.” The rage that simmers inside Dean is fuelled by a toxic blend of shame and self-loathing. At least the kid had fought him. He’d done nothing. He cringes inside, remembering gagging and choking as he’d held back the burning sting of tears and thought only of Sammy.

“Bit long in the tooth for my taste, but you’re still pretty. Still got the best cock-sucking mouth I’ve ever seen, until tonight.” Greer reaches up and squeezes the boy’s jaw and lower cheeks with bruising thick fingers, making his wide mouth pout, gripping tighter as he struggles to pull away. The kid winces as the sharp knife draws blood even though it’s barely touching his flesh. “How about you get on your knees for me again…for old times sake? Teach this one the ropes.”

“I said let him go.” 

Greer shakes his head, nosing along the side of the kid’s slender throat before nuzzling his blood stained nose and upper lip into the vulnerable spot just behind his ear. Dean can see the strands of dark hair that surround it ruffle and move with every breath the bastard makes. They look like a horrific parody of lovers, bruised and blood-stained. 

“I could slice his head clean off.” Greer mocks, a grisly sneer of blood and teeth. “You know I can.”

Dean doesn’t so much as twitch, not wanting to scare the kid with the truth. Greer maybe a sick fucker, but he’s also one hell of a Hunter – it would be nothing for him to twist his hand just so on the kid’s throat and with his strength and the extremely sharp blade to cut through flesh and bone, it’d be over in seconds. He doesn’t let it distract him though, keeps his gun hand steady, not moving an inch off his target as he watches and waits.

“When I kill you you’ll go straight to Hell.” Dean begins so matter-of-factly, as though it’s a given. If Greer kills the boy then Dean will kill him and he knows what happens when you die and where you go all too intimately, Heaven or Hell, he’s done both tours and got the souvenir nightmares to prove it. “Even Hell has a code. There’s a special place for paedophiles and rapists like you Greer. Every sick, fucked up thing you’ve ever done, everything you’ve thought about doing is going to be done to you…over and over, each time like the first time and you won’t like who’s doing it to you as they take turns and they won’t show you any mercy and they absolutely will not stop…ever.”

Dean can’t hear a thing. The truth of his words creating a vacuum, a deathly silence, as though they’ve been cut off from the rest of the world by their power. He can’t hear the sounds from inside the bar or the vehicles travelling up and down the road to Beacon Hills or the rustling of branches and leaves of the trees only twenty yards or so from where they stand even though he can feel a cold night breeze brushing over his cheeks. Greer and the kid are both slack-jawed as they gape at him, but where there’s curiosity in the kid’s expression, there’s a very real gleam of fear that darkens the older man’s eyes until they look as black as any demon Dean’s ever seen. 

“Fuck you, I’m no rapist. They’ve all wanted it…even you did.” Greer seems genuinely shaken and Dean wonders if he’s heard the rumours and stories that follow in the Winchester's wake, of heaven and hell, of angels and demons. He can see that his grip on the kid has loosened slightly. He lets his eyes meet the teenager’s and thankfully realisation flickers within those dark pools as Steve dips his head slightly in acknowledgement. Dean can feel his muscles tighten and coil, spring-loaded, ready to leap across the divide and yank the kid away from the Hunter that holds him.

Before he can even move the teenage boy explodes, his body moving so quickly in clearly well-practiced self-defence moves that Dean has trouble keeping up. Grabbing Greer’s arm that’s wrapped around his neck, the kid pulls it down and across his body as he tips his own shoulder up forcing it into a vertical position and keeping the blade away from his throat, before ducking out from under it. All the while he’s got the Hunter’s knife hand in a wrist lock, putting pressure on it so the older man’s forced to drop the knife or risk snapping the bones. The boy jerks loose and with his free hand Dean throws the hardest punch he can at Greer’s face landing it square on his nose, delighting in the squelch of it under his fist as it sends him down into a moaning heap on the ground. Knuckles throbbing with a delicious ache Dean stands over the fallen Hunter, his gun aimed square at his head.

“You’re the worst kind of rapist, you take advantage of the young and vulnerable, but I’m not vulnerable anymore Greer. I could kill you now and not lose sleep over it.” Dean says coldly. Greer whimpers as he holds his puffy, shattered nose, blood pouring out onto his hands. He looks small, curled in on himself and so pathetic that Dean wonders in disbelief that this is still the same man who gave him nightmares for so many years when he was a kid. 

The teenager darts around him and kicks Greer in the belly. “Never. Touch. Another. Kid. Again. You. Sick. Fuck.” Each word punctuated with a vicious kick until he staggers back to lean against the wall, mouth hanging open panting.

Pulling out the plastic ties he keeps tucked away in an inside pocket Dean roughly pulls Greer’s hands behind his back and hogties him to his ankles. Ignoring the whining sounds coming out of the other man he pulls his fist back and gives him a quick lovetap at the temple to knock him out. After checking the unconscious man’s pulse, Dean pulls out his phone and sends a text to Jody. 

With her contacts Greer will get taken into custody by local authorities and if as he suspects he’s been committing statutory rape across the country, that’ll bring the Feds down on his ass and have the bastard locked away in some penitentiary where karma willing, he can be the bitch of the cell block. There’s a faint lightening of the chains of the past that have always seemed to weigh him down, imagination or not, all Dean can feel is a grim satisfaction and relief when he receives an acknowledgement text from Jody in reply assuring him it’ll be taken care of. 

“Come on kid.” Slipping his gun into the back of his jeans, Dean reaches out and grabs the boy’s sleeve only to have a madly pin wheeling arm bat his hand away. Wild, agitated eyes meet his and Dean holds his hands up in plain sight seeing the way the teenager’s face goes rapidly pale and pinched looking. 

“Not a kid. Don’t…” The boy’s voice cracks and fades away.

“Okay.” Dean says soothingly, recognising shock setting in. “Okay.”

They walk side by side around the building to the parking lot, careful not to touch each other and he can hear the boy counting to ten off his fingers in a shaky voice, over and over, each time followed by what sounds like a sigh of relief. When the boy walks towards the battered blue jeep, Dean can’t help the smirk that tugs at his lips. The anomaly makes sense now.

“Oh man…I’m gonna puke.” The kid hunches over and starts to retch near the rear wheel arch of his jeep, Dean screws his face up in disgust as he backs up and quickly walks over to the Impala. By the time he gets back with a bottle of water from his supplies the kid is leaning against the side of the jeep looking pretty much done. There’s a steaming puddle on the ground, mostly alcohol he figures considering the way the boy was lining up the shot glasses.

“Here.” Dean holds the bottle out to the kid, surprised that he checks the seal hasn’t been tampered with first before opening it and rinsing his mouth out. It’s something he’d do, so to find this level of caution in a 17 year old has his eyebrows rising high on his forehead and his curiosity piqued.

“Thanks dude.” 

“Don’t call me dude.”

The boy sniggers, mumbling under his breath. “Sounds familiar.”

Sighing, Dean rolls his eyes. “The name’s Winchester. Dean Winchester.”

“Yeah, I caught the introduction from Mr Badtouch back there.” He jerks his thumb back over his shoulder towards the rear of the building and Dean can’t help noticing the way the boy’s hand shakes uncontrollably.

“So Steve—“ Dean pauses thoughtfully as the boy’s shoulders visibly tense. “Or rather **_not_** Steve…Do you live nearby? I can give you a ride.”

“What? Nah, I’m good to drive…so so good.” The boy starts to push up from his leaning position against the jeep, swaying so much that Dean has to grab his arm to keep him from tipping over completely. “Whoah.”

“Uh huh, there’s no way you’re driving. If you didn’t kill yourself, you’d kill someone else and knowing my luck it would be me and one of these days it’ll be a permanent one-way trip. No take backs.”

“Huh?” The boy’s mouth is slack and open as he tries to decipher exactly what Dean’s talking about. Good luck with that kid, Dean thinks because sometimes even he doesn’t follow what he’s saying. A lifetime of lies and half-truths to protect the innocent leave him struggling to know what’s real and what’s not, what’s truth and what’s fiction, so how can he expect this teenage boy to understand.

“Stiles.”

“Bless you.”

“Haha funnyman…like I’ve not heard that one before. Stiles, that’s my name. Not Steve.” The boy looks down at the water bottle in his hands, picks at the label with his thumbnail, before lifting his gaze, eyes narrowing as he stares at Dean. It’s the most intense scrutiny and Dean has to fight the urge to shift restlessly before it, knowing that he’s being assessed. 

Eventually Stiles nods to himself and holds his hand out towards Dean. “Thank you.”

Dean reaches out, clasps the younger man’s hand, hissing when what feels like a spark of electricity shoots through his palm as they connect and up the length of his arm. His fingers tighten convulsively around Stiles’ and he can’t seem to let go. It’s not a bad sensation, in fact it’s good, real good. It feels warm and welcoming like Stiles is wrapping him in a big warm blanket of comfort and security. It makes his eyes sting because the last person that made him feel this way was his Mom, her hugs felt like this, that nothing could ever hurt him. That he was safe.

“What the heck was that?” Stiles jerks his hand away, shaking it before making a fist, opening and closing it a number of times as he looks accusingly at Dean. “What did you do to me?”

“Me?” Dean can still feel the tingling in his fingertips. “That wasn’t me, that was all you Sparky.”

Stiles’ face tightens, the colour draining from his features so clearly in the poor lighting that Dean takes a step towards him, only stopping as the teenager holds his hands up in front of him.

“I…I…” Stiles sways. “I don’t feel so good.” His eyes roll back in his head and he pitches forward straight into Dean’s arms. Grunting, Dean slides his arm around the boy’s waist and hauls one of his arms over his shoulder, half-dragging, half-carrying Stiles to the Impala. 

Awkwardly pushing and pulling, Dean manages to get Stiles sprawled on the back seat of his Baby, before checking his pulse and breathing. Reassured he grouses at the unconscious boy. “Jesus, kid. You’re heavier than you look.” 

Slamming the door shut and slipping into the driver’s seat, he flips open the wallet that he’d pulled from Stiles’ back pocket. There’s a couple of twenties, a number of old movie ticket stubs that indicate he’s obviously a Marvel fan, a Beacon Hills High student ID card - fuck, he’d known that he was underage – and a driver’s license which tells him that Stiles made a wise choice in not using his first name going by the jumble of letters that was printed on the card. Dean knew the names of all the demonic princes of Hell and they were decidedly more user friendly than this teenager’s moniker. It's the surname, however, that makes him freeze.

Stilinski.

Dean always makes a point of checking out the deets of local law enforcement before travelling to a set destination. It was probably too much to hope that Stiles was a distant relation of Sheriff John Stilinski of Beacon Hills. Yeah too much to hope as he spies the family photo of a man and woman with a younger Stiles between them, carefully tucked into one of the wallet’s pockets. The woman is gorgeous, warm brown eyes with a wide laughing mouth that is the mirror of her son’s. The man is smiling, love and pride in his family clear on his face as he watches them rather than whoever was taking the photo. The tan uniform shirt with the gold badge he wears is that of a Deputy Sheriff. Dean winces at the image, remembering that the info he’d found on the Sheriff had included the fact that he was a widower.

He currently has the underage son of the local Sheriff in the backseat of his car. An inebriated, unconscious teenage boy, with enough visible bruises and lacerations from his near sexual assault that his Dad would be quite justified in shooting first and asking questions later.

Rubbing his hand tiredly over his face, Dean looks over his shoulder into the back of his car. The red from the neon sign falls across the sleeping boy’s face, highlighting the fringe of long dark lashes that lie delicately against his pale skin and the hint of tongue and teeth visible between his slightly parted lips. Much as Dean’s half tempted to haul him back to the Jeep and lock him in there to sleep it off, there’s an aching vulnerability to Stiles underneath his prickly, cocky demeanour and whether it’s because of their shared loss of a mother at a young age or that the kid reminds him a hell of a lot of a young angry smartass Sammy, Dean’s helpless against the overwhelming need to protect him and not leave him so exposed. 

Sitting in the Impala his hand hovers over the key in the ignition, hesitating.

“Son of a bitch.” Dean shakes his head ruefully and turns the key.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Why do these things keep happening to him? Stiles wakes up to find he's been...rescued? By Dean Winchester of all people, the most notorious Hunter of the modern age. So why does he feel this strange bond with him?

[Chandelier - Sia](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wctHelpInEc)

Stiles lurches into wakefulness with a rude abruptness that has him sitting bolt upright in the darkened room, chest heaving and throat scratchy and raw from screaming. When the lights suddenly come on, making him blink rapidly, he can’t stop the half-assed croak of surprise that escapes him nor the instinctive retreat to the far side of the bed at seeing the man with the gun standing between the two doubles.

“You alright kid?” The man’s voice is low and gravelly, still thick with sleep which belies the alertness on his face and the tense line of his shoulders as he surveys the room.

“No.” His brain kickstarting into life, Stiles quickly takes in the disturbed twist of sheets on the other bed and that both he and the man are wearing t-shirts and boxers. The squirming knot of apprehension in his belly eases somewhat as he mentally registers that his body doesn’t feel used and abused apart from the knuckles on his right hand which ache like fuck and the sting of a split lip as it pulls taut.

Running his hand wearily over his face, Stiles looks around the room. It’s a plain motel room, off-white walls that have turned grey over time, twin double beds with covers that once may have been red, but have faded to a really weird shade of orange that hurts his eyes to look at. There’s a big clunker of a tv on a bench opposite the beds and a partially opened door that leads to what must be the bathroom in the far corner. Definitely not 5 star, but it’s clean and warm.

Finally, he lets himself look at the man. Dean, his brain supplies all too helpfully and Stiles swallows nervously. He’s in a motel room with Dean ‘fucking’ Winchester of all people. Somebody upstairs hates him or really, really takes a lot of pleasure in screwing him over because how on earth did he end up sharing a room with one of the most notorious Hunters on the planet, the only other one as ruthless and as deadly is this man’s brother, Sam Winchester. 

“How…” Stiles begins before pausing, not really sure which question he wants or needs to ask first. He ends up waving a hand around the room hoping that will suffice. It seems to from the way Winchester huffs out a resigned sigh and sits on the edge of his bed, flicking the safety on his gun and slipping it under the furthest pillow away from Stiles’ bed.

“I brought you here after you passed out.” The older man rubs his chin. It’s so quiet that Stiles can hear the rasp of his stubble against the flesh of his hand before he moves it up to paw at his eyes tiredly. “Couldn’t leave you alone in the parking lot kid, not everyone’s as nice as me.”

Stiles snorts and quickly changes it into an absolutely genuine and not fake at all cough when he sees those green eyes narrow.

“What the hell were you doing there anyway? That place is not for kids. It’s dangerous.” Winchester growls and Stiles feels his spine stiffen.

“It’s none of your business and don’t call me kid.” Stiles grates out. This guy has no idea of what he’s been through. What he’s seen…what he’s done. He can explain that he needed a drink or two or three, that’s easy, but how does he explain that he needed to hurt as well – that he knew what he was doing by goading the douchebag even though he got more than he bargained for. He sags limply, letting his gaze drop to the ugly bedspread, all the irritation suddenly washed out of him by grief so raw that it feels like his guts have been turned inside out.

“Promise me you won’t go back.” Winchester isn’t going to let this go and Stiles doesn’t have the strength or will to argue and simply nods his head. “The people there…they’re dangerous and you don’t want to get sucked into their world. That shit tonight is not the worst thing that could happen to you, believe me.” 

The guy’s persistent and Stiles wants to laugh, bitter and jagged, because the worst thing has already happened. He doesn’t though because it feels like he might crack and break apart. So he listens and the genuine concern in Winchester’s voice loosens something inside him that he’s locked down tight.

“Yeah…I believe you.” Stiles rasps. He’s choking – throat closed off, chest aching - trying to hold back all the feelings he’s supressed for so long, ever since the night he and his best friend went into the woods to look for a body. Fear, envy, lust, shame, anger, love, grief, guilt - it all comes crashing down and whether it’s because he doesn’t know this man and will probably never see him again or that he simply can’t keep his finger in the dam wall of his emotions anymore, the burning sting of tears overflows and he buries his face in his hands. Hands that will forever be stained with blood.

“Ah…come on kid, it’s okay.” Winchester mumbles awkwardly, but Stiles can’t stop.

When the bed dips and a strong arm wraps around his shoulders drawing him in tight to a hard body, it surprises the heck out of him, Winchester doesn’t seem the type. He doesn’t accept the hug, but he doesn’t fight it either, not when it makes him feel safer and more reassured than he’s felt for a long time. He cries and rages at the unfairness of it all until there’s nothing left, barely conscious of a voice humming soothing sounds. He should be embarrassed or angry or relieved at letting go so violently, but he’s not. He’s not anything, all Stiles feels is numb. Maybe there’s a reason that he met Dean Winchester tonight he thinks, a man who has seen it all, good and bad and all the grey areas too. Maybe he’s the right person to judge him. To punish him.

Strangely resolved, Stiles comes to an awareness that he and Dean are sitting together side by side on Stiles’ bed, the heat from the other man’s body is welcome as he shivers uncontrollably. The Hunter leans into him, his shoulder pressing into Stiles’, but not so that he feels weird about the close contact he usually only reserves for his Dad and Scott and sometimes if he’s lucky, Derek.

“I know who you are.” Something inscrutable passes over Dean’s face, there’s no outward surprise at Stiles’ knowing. “But, you don’t know who I am. I killed Allison Argent.” 

Dean stiffens beside him and Stiles has no doubt now that he’s here with the rest of the influx of Hunters into the area for Allison’s funeral tomorrow…today, a quick glance at the clock reveals it’s just after midnight. He appreciates that Dean doesn’t flinch or push him away.

“She wasn’t the only one.” Stiles can hear his voice and wishes it wasn’t so empty, so void of emotion, but he’s not sure he can keep going if he doesn’t confess matter-of-factly.

“I was possessed.” Stiles continues feeling the tension increase in Dean’s body.

“Demon.” The older man states gruffly.

“Sort of. A nogitsune, a fox spirit.” Stiles waits for Dean to say something, but he’s just listening patiently. “It all started a while back…one night I had the bright idea to go into the woods with my best friend and find the body of a murdered girl or rather half a body-”

Stiles talks. And talks. Talks until his throat feels raw. He can’t seem to stop. The words forming on his tongue and spilling out of his mouth uncontrollably. He doesn’t name names or give identifying details, but Dean doesn’t strike him as an idiot and if he wanted to he could put things together fairly easily. The strange thing is that Stiles doesn’t believe this notorious Hunter will want to. Pressed so close together, at every point where their skin touches Stiles can feel an underlying buzz, like static charge conducting back and forth between their bodies. A communication of sorts that whispers in the back of his mind that the man who hisses and curses in dismay and occasionally grunts in approval as he tells his story is one that can be trusted.

When he finishes, Stiles pants heavily through his open mouth as though he’s run a mile and not simply exhausted himself telling the tale. It should be cathartic to reveal everything he and the pack have endured he thinks, but instead he simply feels sick. Swallowing heavily, Stiles watches apprehensively as Dean goes to the bathroom without a word, he hears the tap turn on and then the Hunter is returning with a glass of water that he holds out patiently waiting for Stiles to take it. There’s a risk that Dean’s put something in it, Stiles knows that even as he reaches out and drinks it down, every last drop, but whatever happens it’ll be what the Hunter thinks he deserves.

“That’s some fucked up shit.” Dean says, sitting opposite Stiles on the edge of his own bed. Stiles shrugs, dropping his gaze to his feet and watches as his toes curl into the ugly brown shag carpet, not sure what to say. Fucked up shit – yeah and then some and he was the cause of a good majority of it.

“I should know I’ve had my fair share.” There’s an edge in Dean’s voice that Stiles thinks he recognises, he’s heard it in his own voice once or twice, an echo of pain and loss bordering on unbearable.

“I don’t think I can get past this. How can I when I killed her?” Stiles pleads, wringing his hands as his fingers tremble uncontrollably. “Tell me it’ll get better…that I won’t keep seeing the look on her face when the blade slides in every time I close my eyes. I’ll believe you…I’ll believe you.” He trails off helplessly, a whimper escaping when he sees Dean’s expression.

“I can’t.” Dean says gruffly, green eyes that are a different shade than he's used to but still dimmed by sorrow. “I’ve lost too many people…good people…some by my hand and others…well they’re still dead because of me and if you find a way to get past it then for God’s sake let me know, because I carry each and every one of them with me every single day and sometimes that’s crippling beyond words and yet other times…they give me the strength to do what needs to be done so that they didn’t die in vain because of some craptastic supernatural bullshit.”

Dean sighs heavily, rubbing a hand over his face, fingers pressing deep into his eye sockets before leaning forward elbows on his knees, hands clutched together. “Live Stiles, that’s all you can do. Live your life the best you can even when it sucks ass and your teeth are getting kicked in. Just keep going and live.”

Stiles wraps his arms low around his belly, hugging himself. It’s not what he wanted to hear, not by a long shot, but when didn’t the truth hurt. They sit in silence for long enough that despite the warm room his arms and thighs start to feel chilled.

“Come on kid, get dressed. We’re getting out of here.” Dean stands and picks up his duffel bag off the floor and rummages through it, pulling out some clean clothes and throwing a t-shirt at Stiles so it lands on his head.

“Don’t call me…ugh.” Stiles grimaces, giving up ungracefully as he tugs the t-shirt down into his lap, fingers plucking at the material restlessly. “Where are we going?” He asks instead, curiosity getting the better of him.

“Sacramento.” 

“What’s in Sacramento?” 

Dean points to the clock. “There’s more chance of a tattoo parlour being open at this time in Sacramento than there is in Beacon Hills.”

Stiles blinks. “You’re getting a tattoo? Now.” He says in disbelief.

“Not me, you are.” 

Stiles blinks again. “What?”

Dean pauses his hands at the bottom of his t-shirt starting to lift it and Stiles gets a glimpse of a flat stomach and a trail of light hair leading down into the waistband of his boxers and he swallows hard. A frisson of something warm and churning settles low in his gut. He’s not blind to the older man’s good looks and he can’t stop the way his mouth drops open and gapes as Dean yanks off the t-shirt and reveals a broad chest, wide shoulders and well-defined arms. Dean’s not as ripped as Derek, but it’s still pretty damn impressive. Dean points to a black tattoo of what looks like a black sun sitting high on his pec just below his collarbone.

“You’re getting this. It’s an anti-possession symbol.” Dean answers the question that had been sitting on Stiles’ lips before he can even verbalise it.

“Oh. That’s…” Stiles’ mind races. If only he’d known about this before, he could’ve stopped all this shit from happening, stopped himself from being possessed by that thing. A large warm hand lands on his shoulder and the whirlwind of his thoughts slows down as he meets Dean’s eyes.

“Don’t.” Dean’s expression is grim and implacable. “Don’t go there. The past is over. It’s enough that we can stop it from happening again.”

Stiles nods, shivering uncontrollably as he realises how much he’d suppressed the fear that he could be taken over again.

“Okay.” Stiles rasps, nodding his head. “Okay.”

He forces himself to be upbeat. “Mini road-trip it is. You and me together, on the road, side by side…” A hazy memory of Dean opening the door to a black old-school muscle car surfaces. “Can I drive?”

Dean snorts derisively and turns away and walks into the bathroom and shuts the door.

“That’s not a no.” Stiles calls after him. “Right?”

Stiles fidgets restlessly, sitting shotgun in the baddest ass car he’s ever seen and that includes a certain Camaro that he’d drooled over as much as he had its sourwolf owner. Lifting his shirt slightly he checks the two tattoos, covered in antiseptic cream, that sit low on either side of his pelvis with a tentative finger.

“If you leave ‘em alone and keep them clean they’ll heal good.” Dean says before slurping on the straw of his soda. Stiles pulls his shirt down and grabs the curly fries from the bag of burgers that they’d picked up from the drive through of a fast food joint on the outskirts of Sacramento. Shoving a couple in his mouth he chews, wincing at the throbbing ache that threatens to settle behind his eyeballs as much as the burn from the salt touching his split lip. The price for slamming down all those so-called free shots from Mr Badtouch in the bar the previous night.

“Thanks for paying for them Mr Kyle Reese.” Stiles’ mouth quirks, recalling the name that he’d spotted on the credit card that Dean had handed over to the guy in the Tattoo Parlour. From his chosen alias, Stiles gathers that his companion has hidden depths of the nerdy kind, there wouldn’t be too many people who would remember the name of Michael Biehn’s character in ‘The Terminator’.

“Come with me if you want to live.” Dean replies with a smirk, his eyes never leaving the road as he cradles his drink between his thighs and reaches into the bag and plucks out a burger, somehow managing to unwrap it one handed all before Stiles’ fascinated stare. It’s quite apparent that the other man has done this who knew how many times before to do it all so effortlessly and without even a hitch or a deviation in the Impala’s momentum.

“So what’s the deal with the other one?” Dean asks as he takes a big bite. Stiles is puzzled for a moment until the Hunter indicates with a tilt of his chin towards his hip as he swallows. “You about passed out from the first one, I didn’t think you’d have it in you to go for two.”

“I don’t like needles or blood alright.” The look that Dean gives him at that comment has even Stiles rolling his eyes at the irony of it. “Yeah, yeah…my cup runneth over of homicidal bad guys at the moment so it’s a bit hard to avoid the red stuff.” He grimaces remembering some of the injuries that have been inflicted on himself and the rest of the pack over recent times. Trying to distract himself before he hurls…again, Stiles points down at his covered hip.

“It’s a triskelion.” He waves a curly fry at Dean as he explains about the tattoo, rather than why he felt compelled to mark himself so definitively as pack and more specifically the Hale pack rather than Scott’s. It wasn’t so much the increasing estrangement he felt from his best friend that had influenced him rather the friendship of sorts that he’d been developing with Derek and knowing that he could count on the wolf to be there when he needed him. “I’ve been told it means different things to different people, but it revolves around the number 3. Father, mother, child. Alpha, beta, omega. The sun, the moon, the truth.”

Dean listens intently as he swallows the last bite, smacking his lips in appreciation. “Now that’s a good burger.”

“The curly fries are pretty good too.” Stiles chews through a handful, his appetite swiftly returning as he moans in appreciation at the salty goodness of fried potato. Manna of the Gods.

“I wish I’d met you earlier Stiles. You know a hell of a lot about werewolves, more than Sam and I’ve put together over the years. Some of what you were talking about before, even my Dad didn’t know or it would’ve been in his journal.”

“Did something happen to someone you know?” Stiles reasons aloud, hearing the melancholy in Dean’s tone.

“Yeah you could say that.” He rubs his hand over his chin. “We happened to her…this girl my brother was into, like really, really into – she’d been bitten.”

Stiles looks down at his hands in his lap. He knows what Dean is, what he does. He’s not naive enough to believe this story has a happy ending.

“It’s only recently when another friend was bitten that we’ve realised that some werewolves can control their instincts and even though he hasn’t said anything I know Sam’s wondering if we did the right thing. If we could’ve done more for Madison.” Dean says sombrely.

Stiles nods in understanding. 

“It really depends on the type of werewolf. The ones descended from the European packs tend to have better control, are self-aware and have cognitive thought processes during the full moon. They’re often in family groups, but even if they’re not they instinctively form into groups – big or small - for safety and support, the members of which have close ties to one another, pack bonds. Don’t get me wrong they’re still dangerous and some of them would be killers even without the bite. Whereas, the native ones-“ He sighs heavily. “From what I’ve researched there’s Wendigo DNA from way, way back somewhere in the mix. They lose themselves, become Omegas instantly without the slow decline that one from a European bloodline would experience. They’re solitary Hunters and regard other wolves as a threat, they’re pure instinct, pure predator and they won’t stop killing. Ever.”

Stiles takes a breath as he lets Dean absorb what he’s said. “Do you know what colour her eyes were as a wolf?”

A furrow forms in Dean’s forehead. “Kinda milky, a grey blue.”

Stiles shakes his head and lets his breath go in a big whoosh. “The wolves descended from the European lines have brilliant red, blue or gold eye colours when they shift. She wouldn’t have stopped Dean. You and your brother saved a lot of people.”

Dean’s mouth twists painfully with relief and regret. “Do you…do you think you could contact my brother with that information? He’s always looking to add to our database.”

Stiles watches the older man, sees the way his jaw clenches and wonders how on Earth Dean ended up with a reputation as an unrelenting cold-blooded killer. He’s pretty sure that Dean’s killed before without hesitation and maybe with a bit of malice too, but there’s something about the way he looks when he talks about his brother and this poor girl that makes Stiles’ throat feel too tight to swallow. 

“Yeah…yeah I can do that.” He agrees.

“Thanks.”

They sit in companionable silence for a long while, the rumbling purr of the Impala’s engine surrounding them comfortingly as they drive towards the long streaking fingers of dawn in the night sky. 

“Your brother then…” Stiles begins uncertainly, aware of the slight stiffening of Dean’s body. “He’s not with anyone now?”

The tension fades away. “Nah. He’s tried, but the line of work we’re in…the things we see and do-“ Dean shrugs, voice gruff. “Hard to find someone who would understand.”

“So, is there…do you-“ Stiles isn’t sure what he’s asking, what Dean’s describing though seems so unutterably sad, so very lonely even with his obviously close connection to his brother. What scares him the most is that he can see parallels with his own life. How the heck do you explain werewolves, banshees and nogitsunes to someone?

“Me…nah…no.” There’s something wistful and uncertain in his tone and Stiles almost regrets asking. “What about you? You’re a good-looking guy, I’m sure you’ve got lots of people interested in being with you.”

Stiles snorts, laughing bitterly. “Do you need glasses? There’s not a big market for pale, scrawny, recently possessed 17 year olds.”

Dean frowns as he turns away from watching the road to stare for a brief moment at his face as though gauging his seriousness. “No, I don’t need glasses, but I think you might need a healthy dose of self-esteem instead.”

Stiles huffs and turns his head away to stare at the tree line at the edge of the road as it whizzes past. Early morning mist creeps low over the ground, hiding the roots at the base of the towering trees, tendrils stretching out onto the blacktop only to scatter as the Impala carries on.

“Did you think that audience you had was for Greer?” Dean questions and the disbelief in his voice is stark enough to make Stiles turn his attention back to the Hunter. “Stiles, you could’ve had your pick of anyone in that bar if you wanted.”

Stiles sucks on his lower lip, drawing it in between his teeth as he considers what Dean’s said. He’d known that there was an unusual amount of people around their table, but he’d thought it was the game that was the draw and not anything else, certainly not him. When Dean doesn’t start to snigger or point a finger shouting “Gotcha”, in fact he looks so serious that Stiles almost starts to believe.

“Even you?” He asks breathlessly. Dean flinches flicking him a startled look, before quickly turning his attention back to the road ahead. For a minute Stiles doesn’t think he’s even going to answer until his tight shoulders droop slightly.

“Yes.” Dean says so softly, so guiltily, that Stiles has to strain to hear him. “Before I realised how young you are. You saw a little bit of my history in action tonight, when you’re too young whether you think you’re in control and want it or not, it can leave scars. I don’t want to be the cause of that to anyone else, ever.”

“Oh.” Stiles cringes because surely he can think of something better to say than that, but he can’t deny the little flutter in his chest of pleasure, embarrassment and horror that seems to have sent him near enough mute. He’s a mess of conflicted feelings, feeling like a jerk because it’s nice to be wanted by someone, particularly someone as badass as Dean Winchester, but what that dirtbag said to Dean in the dark shadows of the bar makes Stiles want to puke. 

He’s a cop’s kid and he can all too easily put it together and it adds up to something vile, which only makes him think about a certain sourwolf and his own background history with Kate Argent which is just as disturbing. If Dean doesn’t want to damage anyone then maybe, and the more he thinks about it the more likely, Derek is exactly the same. There'd been times when Derek had looked at him in a way that had sent his pulse racing, before his expression would close off, appearing distant and remote. It makes him ill to think of a young Derek being so abused.

“What about you, are you interested in someone? Wouldn’t happen to be leather jacket guy by any chance?”

Stiles can only stare at Dean in wide-eyed disbelief, because how the hell did he know that. Admittedly, he’s been known to speak his thoughts aloud, but he can’t recall ever mentioning Derek so specifically, as who else would ‘leather jacket guy’ be?

Dean stops the car and it’s then that Stiles realises that they’ve actually arrived back at the bar’s near empty parking lot and parked on the far side of his Jeep is a very familiar black Camaro. Standing at the front of his car is one leather jacketed werewolf who looks grimmer than Stiles has ever seen him before and it’s not just because of the dark-stubbled jawline and the violent slash of his eyebrows.

“Fuck.” Never let it be said that Stiles can’t be eloquent as the situation demands.

“We can go if you don’t want to see him?” Dean asks, eyeing Derek with a wariness that Stiles is about to easily dismiss and tell him that his sourwolf wouldn’t hurt a fly, but examining Derek’s face and posture a bit more closely he doesn’t think that right at this moment that would be entirely accurate. There’s fear, outrage and the threat of violence lurking in the frown and the downturned eyebrows, what’s more disturbing is the ripple of hurt that crosses his features as Stiles hesitates to answer.

“No. No, I’m safe with him.” Whatever may happen, that’s one thing that Stiles is 110% certain of. Dean casts a doubtful look his way, before holding his hands up in surrender.

“You sure?” Dean replies, ignoring the magnificent eyeroll that Stiles directs at him, his eyes fixed upon the grim-faced young man through the glass. “Hey, I’ll take your word on that, you know him better than I do.” 

Derek stalks towards the passenger side door and Stiles is pretty sure that he’s about to be dragged out of the car by one very pissed off werewolf and he’s not quite ready to go. If he could just hold off for one moment more, then Stiles would go quite willingly, but there’s something about Dean Winchester. A man that he’s only known for near 8 hours and yet somehow this Hunter, this bogeyman of the supernatural world, gets him and he doesn’t want to let go of that feeling just yet. He wishes that Derek would back off for 5 minutes.

Derek’s nearly at the car when he stops in his tracks. Disbelief and frustration deepen the frown lines on his face and it’s only when he starts to press against what appears to be a shimmer in the early morning light does Stiles realise that the werewolf can’t get any closer. Holy heck.

“What the fuck is that?” Dean says, peering at the way Derek’s started to frantically pound on what appears to be an invisible wall.

“It’s like a mountain ash barrier, minus the mountain ash?” Stiles questions, because he knows the power of belief is integral to being a spark, but he’d thought that having an element to manipulate was a requirement too. This is…this is like real magic. Wonder and excitement fill him and if someone was to come up to him right now and say ‘yer a wizard Stiles Stilinski’ then it would be absolutely fitting.

“Derek…Derek…stop man, it’s okay. I’m coming.” Stiles placates, before his sourwolf damages himself beyond his healing ability with the way he's throwing himself at the barrier. Derek huffs audibly, his chest heaving rapidly.  


“I’d better go.” Stiles murmurs even as he sits there and doesn’t make a move to leave. He doesn’t even know what he’s waiting for and surprisingly Dean’s patient and waits with him, which is strange because he’s struck Stiles as a restless soul, someone who likes to keep moving on. Somehow, and Stiles isn’t quite sure how he’s even managed it, he’s slid all the way across the benchseat right up into Dean’s side and wrapped his arms around the other man’s waist, head resting on his chest.

Dean stiffens instantly, hands lifting in the air in surprise like he’s being arrested, before slowly lowering his arms around Stiles’ shoulders and patting his back awkwardly. There’s a comfort in his arms and that zing when they touch is familiar and welcoming. The connection between them weird yet undeniable.

“Thanks Dean.” Stiles murmurs into the cotton fabric of Dean’s t-shirt, before lifting his head and pressing his lips against the other man’s cheek. With his warm stubbled skin under his lips, the compulsion to kiss him is one he doesn’t understand. What he receives from it though is something he does, it’s the same feeling he has for Scott, one of brotherhood and friendship. He’s told this man things he can’t tell Scott, things that would damage their already fractured relationship beyond repair and having Dean listen and understand has not caused some miraculous healing or removal of the guilt. The burden is still there, but he can see the possibility of being able to carry it now. 

“Thanks for everything.”

Dean touches his cheek and the smile he stifles still quirks the corners of his lips. “No chick flick moments please.”

There’s a cocky bravado to his voice that doesn’t fool Stiles for a moment and he makes a rude noise that has Dean pulling him into a headlock to rapidly rub his knuckles back and forth over his hair in a noogie that makes his hair stand on end with static charge.

Squawking wildly, Stiles manages to pull away and tries to flatten it down. 

“You be careful now you hear. I don’t want to have to come back and kick your ass for going to bars underage and looking for trouble, particularly this one.” Dean looks across to where Derek’s prowling back and forth on the other side of the barrier, looking like his head’s about to explode, Stiles can practically see the vein at his temple throbbing from here.

“Nah. Once was enough, but it’s really sweet that you care so much.”

Stiles can’t help but laugh aloud at the chagrined moue that Dean makes and the sudden slight pink tinge that flushes across his high cheekbones and he can feel the clenching twist his heart makes as he realises that it’s the first time in a very long while that the sound’s been a real genuine one. 

“Talking of caring, your friend’s pretty ballsy coming here. A werewolf in the parking lot of a notorious Hunter bar. I don’t think that happens for just anyone. But, ballsy or not if he lays one claw on Baby I’m gonna shoot him…seriously.” 

“What? How did you…no, he’s not-“ Stiles starts before huffing out a deep sigh of resignation as he realises that Derek’s standing directly in front of the car in a full Beta shift, his glowing blue eyes fixated upon Dean’s arm still draped over his shoulders. His claw tipped fingers clenching and releasing into fists at his sides, over and over.

Point, Stiles thinks as he slides back across the seat. Stiles knows that Derek can hear every word they’ve said, so it’s no surprise to see his deer-in-the-headlights expression which mixed with fangs, no brows and heavy sideburns makes his stomach churn because somehow, his sourwolf looks really vulnerable beneath the fierce facade.

“Yeah. We’ve saved each other a few times now. After everything we’ve been through I guess we’ve come to care about each other a whole lot.” Stiles holds Derek’s eyes willing him to hear the truth and when his shift falls away in a smooth ripple across his features leaving a softer cast to them, he thinks maybe he did.

Turning to Dean, Stiles can see he looks lost for a long moment before his attention snaps back. 

“You look like you know what that’s like.” Stiles murmurs softly, not wanting to spook the other man, who during the short time he’s known him is clearly uncomfortable talking feelings and such-like.

“Ummm.” Dean mumbles, ducking his head. “Maybe.”

Knowing that’s as much as he’s going to get, he doesn’t push. “See you around, Dean.”

“Yeah, kid…I know, I know don’t call you kid.” Dean’s lips quirk in amusement as Stiles pushes open the door and climbs out of the Impala with a half-hearted glare. “Live your best life Stiles.” Dean says quietly and Stiles swallows hard and simply nods.

“You too Dean.” He replies and for a moment the older man looks almost stricken, before his features smooth out and he gives a cocky grin.

The low rumble of the car’s engine as Dean guides it steadily past him reminds him of the wolves and the roar it makes as he puts his foot down and it tears out of the lot is as loud as any Alpha that Stiles has heard. Letting his hand drop from an awkward half-wave goodbye, Stiles turns to see Derek watching him silently. The shimmer of air between them is gone.

With no fucks to give, Stiles stumbles towards him on suddenly shaky legs and throws his arms around the other man and holds on, burying his face into the soft cotton t-shirt and sucks in a deep breath of raw masculine scent, a combination of pine, rich earth and clean sweat.

Derek grabs his biceps and pushes him away, holding him at arm’s length, and Stiles feels something he can’t describe, only knows it’s fragile and precious, crack in his chest. Shaking him roughly, Derek stares into his face as he calls him a ‘fucking idiot’ and Stiles can clearly see fear and anger in his expression, but in his eyes – those beautiful kaleidoscope eyes that are red-rimmed and glittering intently – he sees care and a desperate vulnerability beyond friendship. 

He feels that crack heal over and that feeling swell and grow until his chest is full to bursting with warmth. 

When Derek drags him in closer and wraps his arms around him, nuzzling his hair and taking big deep greedy gulps of his scent, Stiles can only clutch at him tighter. Hushing him firmly when he starts to growl, sounding extra pissed off, and he figures it’s because he’s not only got Dean’s scent on him he’s also wearing Dean’s t-shirt which maybe clean, but is probably drenched in it. Derek huffs, but stops the rumbling.

“I can smell blood. Did he hurt you?” Derek asks gruffly after a timeless moment where Stiles can’t be sure how long they’ve stood there, twined around each other so tight and simply feeling each other breathe, it could be a minute or an hour.

“Who? Dean?” Stiles jerks his head back from where it’s resting on Derek’s chest, his nose pressed into the hollow of his throat. Derek nods and there’s murder in his eyes as they flicker over his features, fixing on the cut on his neck from Mr Badtouch’s knife and his puffy lip from where he backhanded him. “Whatever you’re thinking I can assure you it’s not that. I was dumb and came here last night for a drink, he saved me from a nasty piece of work and then-“ 

Stiles pauses because he’s not sure he can really explain what happened last night between them or how he now has the number for the most notorious Hunter in modern times in his phone’s list of contacts. Derek’s expression is so very neutral that it’s almost painful to look at and Stiles is pretty sure that the wolf knows it was more than just wanting a drink or two that brought him here, he hopes that he doesn’t realise that Stiles was looking to get hurt…to get punished for Allison because that’s something he’s gotta sort out in his own head first before he even thinks about talking it out with someone else.

“Do you know who that was? Can you believe it, Dean Winchester got me my first tattoo? My first two tattoos.” He corrects.

Derek’s eyebrows form a distinct ‘V’ which Stiles interprets as ‘are you fucking kidding me’.

“The car’s pretty distinctive, why did you think I was so pissed when you pulled in, I thought…I don’t really know what I thought. I was just glad you were alive so I could kill you for scaring the shit out of me.” Derek confesses in a huff and the tension in his jaw eases. “I don’t know what surprises me more, that you’ve got a Winchester for a new BFF or you managed to stay conscious for not just one, but two tattoos.”

“Hey, I only passed out once when you were blow-torching Scott.” Stiles winces as soon as he says it, because it sounds kinda like a euphemism that he doesn’t even want to think about in context with Scott. He doesn’t think he should mention that Dean near enough had to hold his hand through the whole ink job because he was feeling kinda woozy. The big jerk had smirked at him the whole time too.

“You’re not planning on doing anything else dumb are you?” Derek asks seriously and Stiles is suddenly conscious of the way the wolf is holding his biceps, thumbs rubbing back and forth soothingly. Derek dips his head and when he looks up through his lashes there’s something in the wolf’s eyes that makes Stiles catch his breath. “When I found your room empty last night I…I was worried.”

That warmth blooms in his chest again at the admission and while a little voice in the back of his head whispers that he doesn’t deserve to feel this way, to feel happy when they’re putting Ally to rest today, Stiles chooses to remember Dean’s words instead. It’s not easy and he doesn’t think it ever will be, but if Derek and Dean can go on after all the shit that’s been thrown their way then he has to try.

“Uh…no plans, but I make no guarantees.” Stiles shivers as Derek lets his hands slide down his arms to rest on his hips, seemingly reluctant to let him go.

“Of that I’m certain.” Derek snarks, before asking more seriously. “So you’re okay?”

“I am now.” Stiles pauses for a moment, wondering if he dare test the waters. Mentally shrugging, because if he’s gonna live his best life then he wants Derek to be a part of it, in whichever role he prefers – friend, pack mate or boyfriend. He smiles encouragingly at the wolf. “Did you know that in 6 weeks it’s my birthday? My eighteenth birthday.”

“I knew.” Derek inclines his head. “It’s marked on my calendar, that and the day after.”

“Wow. You have a calendar and you’ve got my birthday marked on it, I can’t believe it little MrDomesticWolf…wait…wait…did you say the day after too?”

“Yeah, when I was going to ask you out on a coffee date.” 

Stiles can feel his eyes widen in surprise. “Really?”

“Really.” Derek says deadpan, before mumbling. “I didn’t want to be too obvious on the actual day.”

Stiles’ heart thumps heavily in his chest. “A coffee date huh…can I say yes now?” Stiles squeaks.

“You can which makes me very happy, but I won’t hold you to it-“ He places a finger against Stiles’ lips as they start to part in protest. “-today’s going to be a rough day and tomorrow may not be any better or the one after that and the one after that.”

Stiles sucks in a shuddering breath acknowledging the truth of that statement and nods.

“I just want you to know…we’ll just take it slow and no pressure, not...” Derek hesitates, a pink flush rising up past his stubble to stain his cheekbones as he tugs on the belt loops of Stiles’ jeans pulling him in closer, their pelvises barely touching before easing away. “Not for anything. Okay?”

Stiles remembers the conversation he had with Dean about age and consent and his own ‘lightbulb’ moment with regards to Derek. He reaches up and draws Derek’s hand from his mouth to his cheek and nuzzles into it gently, affectionately.

“Yeah, on both sides. Okay.” Stiles smiles, letting everything he feels for the other man show.

Derek blinks and the shy smile that slowly lights up his face in return is the best thing that Stiles has seen in a long, long time.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean attends the funeral and it's as bad as he expects it to be. What he doesn't expect is a visitor to knock on his motel room door after - a visitor both dangerous and seductive.

Dean was right. It did suck. Great big hairy balls of suckage.

Chris looked like a ghost. A gaunt, greyed out version of himself, with eyes so dry that they’d formed deep dark hollows until there was the barest pinprick of pupil staring out from the shadows. He seemed to be not seeing the here and now, they were so very lost and desolate, or if he was - then he was seeing something very different to what everyone else was. Maybe a little girl with long shiny brown hair, apple-round cheeks and a sweetness to her which had surprised the heck out of him considering her family tree, which was how Dean remembered Allison from the one and only time he’d met her by accident. Chris and Victoria had been very protective.

He was grateful that Chris seemed to have support and didn’t seem to need or want anyone’s condolences. He wasn’t good at that shit anyway. On one side of Chris was a very pretty older woman, dark hair pinned up with some loose wisps falling either side of her face, her red-rimmed brown eyes watching the Hunter with concern. On the other was the Sheriff in full-dress uniform, steely-eyed, his shoulder steady against Chris’, ready to support him if needed. He was watching the gathered crowd with cool calculation, it was obvious that he knew that a lot of the mourners often found themselves on the wrong side of the law which was maybe why the neatly pressed uniform. Every now and then his eyes would drift towards a group on the far side of the deep hole soon to be an occupied grave, worry softening his gaze.

It's the same group that Dean’s eyes were frequently drawn to. Stiles wore a plain white shirt, a black skinny tie and an expression of such carefully contained grief that Dean wondered how he didn’t rupture something. Standing not quite at his side wasn’t the leather-clad werewolf like he’d been expecting, it was a younger man, the same age as Stiles. Shorter with floppy dark hair and a look on his face that was gut-wrenching in its devastation. The swollen brown eyes were wet and familiar, matching those of the woman who stood with Chris. Mother and son then.

On the other side of floppy boy holding his hand is a tall good-looking kid. Pale with golden curls and cheekbones you could cut yourself on, he looked more like an angel should than the actual angels that Dean had met. Angel’s eyes flicker and dart all around trying to avoid looking directly at the rather plain coffin and the open grave. It’s more than grief Dean thinks as the kid swipes a shaky hand over his sweat-beaded brow and blows out a few deep anxious breaths. 

To Stiles’ right is a petite redhead and at first glance her face is so cold and expressionless that Dean wondered why she’d bothered to attend at all she seemed so dispassionate. But, the closer he watches the more he realises that her staring eyes are unfocused and her breathing is so regulated to appear unnatural, each breath in and breath out timed to the exact second. Her fingers are twined with Stiles’ and they are white, almost bloodless, from the death grip they have on each other.

Looming at their backs is the wolf from the bar’s parking lot. He watches them all carefully, as though gauging which one of the brittle group is going to shatter first and readying himself to snatch them up, but Dean notices that his attention seems to settle on Stiles more often than not. When he’s not watching them, he warily keeps an eye on the other mourners, clearly knowing there's more Hunters than civilians among them. Ballsy.

Dean drags his gaze away and looks up at the brilliantly blue sky above. It’s such a perfect mild sunny day that it feels like even Mother Nature is spitting in the eye of the grieving group. He much prefers the traditions of his own extended Hunter family of burning rather than burying their dead, but then that’s the European way he supposes.

The drone of the minister’s voice peters out and finally it’s over.

He knows that it will never be over for the other man as he watches Chris stand at the edge of his daughter’s grave, looking down into it like he’s only a heartbeat from taking the one step required to join her. As the rest of the mourners slowly walk away, he thinks that maybe it won’t be over for the small group of teens that lingers either.

Movement catches his attention and he sees Stiles reach out and say something to the floppy haired boy who turns on him sharply, his wretchedness disappearing with a vicious sneer before tugging his hand free and walking away, Angel scurrying after him. Stiles visibly droops until the wolf places his hand on his shoulder.

Somehow, he can’t seem to move away, not until he sees Stiles lift his gaze to meet his eyes and he can see the grief etched into the young man’s features making him seem not quite so young anymore. What allows him to finally take a step is that while there is grief it’s not one that consumes and devours until there’s nothing else left, he can still see other emotions that Stiles can’t or won’t hide flicker over his face and he knows that eventually Stiles will be okay. 

He nods in acknowledgement, aware that Stiles’ wolf protector is glaring at him fiercely, almost daring him to approach and at any other time or place Dean would’ve gladly taken up that challenge just to piss him off. For one moment the werewolf looks down at the boy and girl in front of him and his expression changes for a split second to one of such care and concern that Dean can’t believe it’s the same person. Even with his neatly trimmed stubble, he looks younger and almost as vulnerable as his two charges and without the fierce frown Dean realises he’s ridiculously good-looking. Aware of his scrutiny, the frown is swiftly back in place as the older boy shepherds Stiles and the girl away from the graveside towards the black muscle car that looks almost as well-cared for as his own Baby.

Blowing out a long breath, the sun is warm on his face and shoulders as Dean starts to walk to where he’d parked the Impala further back on the long driveway winding through the cemetery when he hears footsteps rushing up behind him.

Spinning on his heel, Dean barely holds back from lashing out defensively as a hand lands heavily on his upper arm, fingers digging in to keep him in place.

“Dean.” Chris Argent sounds shaky and breathless, deep furrows marking his face and his sunken eyes gleam wildly.

“Chris…I’m sor-“

“Can you bring her back?” Chris interrupts before Dean can even start to panic over what to say to a man who is known as a Hunter’s Hunter, tough and relentless, but now is simply a grieving father.

“What?” 

“I’ve heard things…things about you and Sam.” Chris leans in close enough that Dean can feel the other man’s breath on his face, close enough that he can smell the sweetness of bourbon and the cool bite of mint layered over the top. “There’s talk that you’ve died and come back more times than I can count on one hand…that Death won’t allow you to die. So can you bring her back?”

Dean cringes inside. Is this what he’d been like when Sammy had died - grieving to the point of madness, to the point of begging and he knows that he was probably worse. There’s hope in Chris’ expression and it makes his grief so brutally real and raw in contrast that the surge of pity that washes over Dean leaves him momentarily speechless. 

“Can you bring my Ally back?” Chris’ voice cracks as Dean shakes his head. “Please Dean…please.”

“I can’t Chris.” Dean says quickly. “Even if I could…coming back it’s…it’s fucked up. It’s not right. We’re not meant to come back. I wasn’t meant to come back.”

“You did though and you’re okay. If you did why can’t she?” Tears trickle down the etched in grooves of Chris’ face. “She’d made mistakes, but she was trying to make amends, to be better. She was a good person, better than me…better than you or Sam. She shouldn’t be lying in that hole…she shouldn’t.”

“No she shouldn’t.” Dean agrees and puts his hand over Chris’ where it still grips his bicep tightly and pries his cold fingers loose. “I can’t bring her back Chris, but I can tell you where she is right now.”

Leading the other man to one of several park benches near some shady trees Dean sits down and points to the space next to him. He inwardly sighs in relief when after a moment’s hesitation Chris sits down too and shudders quietly next to him with every sobbing breath.

“Let me tell you about heaven.”

Dean wearily stuffs his toiletries into his duffel bag, on top of the clothes he’d need to wash when he gets back to the bunker and casts another look around the motel room making sure he’s not left anything behind. His laptop is still open on the desk where he’d been doing some last minute research, plugged in to let it fully charge before he gets on the road again, but everything else is already stowed away in Baby.

He’d thought about staying one more night. The conversation with Chris had been long and emotional. The other Hunter asking a lot of questions that Dean had tried to answer the best he could without going into too fine a detail and pissing off some of the winged bags of dicks that didn’t want humanity knowing too much about the afterlife. By the end, Chris was dry-eyed and after a long hard stare, he’d simply nodded before standing up and walking away. It had been exhausting and Dean wasn’t sure if he’d been of any comfort to Chris at all. He just wants to go home.

The knock on the door has him checking his gun snug against his back before peeking out from behind the room’s curtains. Whoever it was had moved further along the building, as though anticipating he would do exactly this and had put themselves out of line of sight.

Cursing under his breath, Dean cautiously opens the door. The man standing outside has his back to him, as though surveying the view of the motel parking lot in the still warm early evening. It gives Dean the chance to appreciate the broad shoulders and back tapering down to a firm round ass and solid thighs encased in dark denim.

“Can I help you?” Dean asks, momentarily distracted when the man turns around. Older in appearance now, he still recognises him nearly instantly from the newspaper articles he’s read online from the local archive about the Hale fire and he’s even better looking than his photos would suggest. Dean can’t stop looking at his thick neck and defined chest revealed by the low ‘V’ of his grey Henley.

“Why, yes you can…aren’t you the pretty one.” The leer is well-practiced, but the wickedly amused twinkle of interest in the bluest eyes he’s seen in a long while is all genuine.

Dean’s fingers tighten around the grip of his gun as he’s on the receiving end of a lingering once over that is practically smouldering. There’d been a time that if he’d been in a bar or club then he’d be all over that. He knows himself and the aura of a powerful confident man, gets his motor running like nothing else. 

He returns the once over with a sneer. This guy is hot and dangerous, more so because he’s not carrying any weapons except for what his nature provides, and the goatee is sexy as all fuck when he thinks how it would feel against his skin - rasping against his thighs…his ass. That said, he still can’t compare to a warrior angel – one who had fought his way through Hell, commanding a Wing of Angels to rescue Dean from a nightmare.

“What do you want?” He asks dismissively and realises his mistake instantly when Hale’s eyes light up, accepting the challenge. Dean silently curses, wolves are predators in every sense of the word and they love to hunt and not necessarily just for food either.

“Where do I start?” Hale says with a smirk, before taking a step closer cocking his head to one side. “Business before pleasure though, I need you to leave town. You’re a distraction and now I’m up close I can see why.”

Dean twitches in surprise, not at the attempt to run him out of town – that’s nothing new, but being called a ‘distraction’…huh. “You caught me packing, but you’ve piqued my interest now so maybe I should stick around for a bit longer.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea, things happen in Beacon Hills. Bad things.” Before Dean can even blink the other man leaps and he finds himself pinned up against the door and staring into burning red eyes. “Particularly to Hunters, even to Winchesters.”

Dean’s gun hand is trapped between his back and the wooden door, he struggles furiously, grunting – letting the Alpha think it’s his only weapon as he slips the fingers of his other hand into his pocket and retrieves a vial of mountain ash.

“Then you know if anything happens to me Hale, my brother is going to burn this town down around your ears.”

It’s a barely there movement, the inadvertent flinch, but Dean feels it all the same as he stares into the eyes of the Alpha werewolf. He’s not sure if it’s because he knows his name or the reminder of how he’d received such severe injuries that even his healing had struggled to cope with them, but he definitely scored a hit. The wolf draws in a deep breath, pauses then leans in closer until his nose brushes teasingly up and down the line of Dean’s throat and then does it again, his eyes narrowing thoughtfully as he examines Dean’s face. 

“I think I understand now why you’re such a distraction for him, like calls to like and you Dean Winchester have an underlying layer of scent very similar to someone I know. Someone who’s very special, who has a gift that would make a pack near enough invincible.” Something flickers in his eyes, a shadow that Dean would describe as grief before it flickers out and pure calculation replaces it as Hale muses aloud. “It makes me wonder if you have that gift as well. That talent, that spark.”

“Call me contrary, but I don’t think you should leave now. Stay awhile and see what Beacon Hills can offer.” His hip rolls seductively against the front of Dean’s jeans as the wolf leans in close. Hale’s lips brush against Dean’s ear as he speaks and Dean struggles not to react even though he can feel his pulse begin to throb in his neck to a faster beat, uncertain if it’s solely from fear. “My sweet spark…oh what I could do with two of you in my pack. It makes me positively giddy.”

“Stiles.” Dean says, not needing Peter Hale to confirm or deny it, he just knows. He’s not sure if he believes that whole thing about ‘gifts’ or ‘talents’, all he knows is that the moment he saw the younger man he’d felt a kinship to him that he’d never known before. 

Dean holds his breath as he sees the man’s jaw bulge and nauseatingly realign, viciously sharp fangs descend in front of his eyes. “I offered him the bite once and he refused me, just as well considering my nephew has finally got his head out of his ass and is bumbling his way to courting him. I wonder though-“ The wolf pauses and lifts Dean’s arm, his wrist level with his mouth and he can feel his humid breath against the sensitive skin there – the scrape of his fang tracing the vein and it makes Dean shiver. “-would you do the same?”

“Yes he would.” Before the wolf can even turn to the speaker, two fingers press against his temple and Peter Hale collapses unconscious to the floor.

“Cas.” Dean acknowledges the angel as he rubs his damp wrist against his cotton t-shirt, noting that Cas is looking even more judgey than usual. It’s been so long that he’d forgotten the aura of power that surrounds him, the pressure of it against Dean’s skin – a demand for submission that threatens his composure every time – he’s grateful that his voice sounds so steady. 

“Been a while. Thanks for the assist, less clean-up for me without my handy dandy dustbuster.” He waves the vial of ash in the air before pocketing it once more.

Dean drags the werewolf fully into the room and shuts the door, taking a moment to compose himself before he turns around and- 

It slams into him all over again. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Those deep blue eyes he’s dreamed about, watch him with an intensity that he can almost feel prickling over his skin.

“Dean.” 

Dean waits and when nothing more is forthcoming, like ‘I’m sorry I haven’t been around’ or ‘time’s different in heaven and I didn’t realise I’d been gone so long’ even if it’s a lie, he starts to get pissed.

Stomping over to his bag, he shoves and pushes, cramming in everything tight and savagely pulls on the zipper, which promptly gets stuck and he curses it vigorously under his breath.

“Dean, are you angry with me?” Castiel asks, clearly puzzled. The rustle of his overcoat letting Dean know that he’s moved closer, but he can’t look at him or he just might snap.

“Ya think.” He snorts in annoyance when Cas brushes his fingers over the zip and it starts to move smoothly back and forth.

“You wanted him to bite you?” Confusion lowers the angel’s voice. “Should I have not interfered?”

“No, of course I didn’t want him to bite me, no matter how good looking the guy is. I’m human, I don’t want to start howling at the moon or sniffing butts and crotches.” There maybe one or two exceptions he thinks before clamping down on that stray thought hard and fast.

“You’re attracted to him.” 

Dean’s used to the matter-of-fact way that Cas speaks, but there’s a harsher tone in his voice which jerks Dean’s head around and he eyeballs Cas, taking in how stiffly he’s carrying himself and the fleeting twitch at the corner of his eye. The atmosphere surrounding the angel is positively crackling.

“Maybe, but that’s not why I’m angry.”

Cas who’d looked like he was one step away from smiting some werewolfy ass falters. 

“I don’t understand.”

“Have you heard me calling you at all?” Dean tries as hard as he can to keep the hurt from his voice, which is next to impossible when his throat feels like it’s got a lump the size of his fist lodged somewhere deep in it.

“Yes, but you weren’t in immediate danger and you knew that I had work to do in Heaven with my brothers and sisters. I couldn’t leave, it was at a delicate point in the negotiations.” It’s so logical and practical and so everything that Dean isn’t right now, it’s the lit match to the fuel of his barely contained temper.

“Bullshit. When you care about someone, you keep in touch. You don’t ignore them and leave them thinking of all the fucked up things that could’ve possibly happened to you…and what do you mean immediate danger. I wasn’t in immediate danger here, except for maybe being turned into an Alpha werewolf’s chew toy.”

Dean rakes his hand through his hair when he sees that Cas still isn’t getting it. “If I disappeared on you and didn’t answer my phone-“ Dean shakes his head when Cas looks like he’s about to butt in. “-and no you couldn’t just snap your fingers and find me what would you think? Would you think something bad had happened or maybe that I’d had enough of being your friend? That I was walking away.”

Cas sits down heavily on the end of the bed and deep furrows appear on his forehead. “Oh.”

“Yeah **_‘Oh’_**.” Dean snipes bitterly. “You ignore me for all this time and the only reason you show up now is to be a cockblock.”

“I would never ignore you Dean.” Cas says seriously. “I’ve always kept watch over you.”

“Keeping watch and keeping in touch are not the same things Cas, not between friends…” Dean stumbles to a stop as he thinks about what’s been said or more importantly what’s not been said. “So you did mean to be a cockblock, didn’t you?”

Cas looks away and Dean can see the way his jaw bulges as he clenches his teeth. “Yes.” Cas grinds out.

Dean sits down heavily on the end of the other bed, not sure what to make of that. Part of him is pleased at the apparent jealousy and another part is pissed knowing how possessive and territorial angels can be that he can be discarded like a toy until someone else wants to play with him.

Cas clears his throat, breaking the silence. “I feel for you Dean.”

Slowly, slowly Dean turns his head towards the other bed, not quite ready to meet the other man’s eyes. 

“What-“ He coughs uncertainly. “-what does that mean?”

“Inside me…my head…in here.” He rests his hand on his chest. “I feel things for you Dean Winchester that I’ve never felt before. My mind and body reacts to you in ways that are surprising…intriguing.” Cas gestures to his lap and Dean wants to squirm as he feels a twitch within his own pants. “Hard.”

Not daring to stare at the angel’s bulge any longer, Dean warily meets Cas’ eyes and feels his breathing hitch at the look on his face. It’s the first time he’s seen such a complex mesh of emotions rather than the blank stoic expression he’s used to and it’s both frightening and exhilarating. Cas is looking at him like he’s a fucking miracle, the wonder mixed with fear and such a fierce longing that it makes Dean’s cheeks grow warm.

Damn it. He’s blushing like a virgin bride. Rubbing his hand over his burning face, Dean tries to figure out what this all means or if it even means anything at all. Strangely, what echoes in his head is Stiles’ saying ‘you too, Dean’ – reminding him to take his own advice and live his best life - when they’d parted ways at the Hunter bar. 

He’d always felt that it would be selfish of him to worry about his own desires and needs when so often the stakes were world-ending and there was a part of him that believed he didn’t deserve them to be met anyway. When he was younger he’d been able to use casual encounters for sex and a very shallow form of intimacy, now that he’s older it’s getting harder and harder to pretend that it fills that hollowed out space inside him – one that’s carved out by loneliness and an aching hunger for a connection that’s more than physical. 

Scowling, Dean’s pretty sure he’s reached his limit of touchy-feely introspection and thinks ‘fuck it’.

He offers his hand across the dividing space between the two beds. Cas blinks uncertainly, but Dean holds steady, unwavering. 

“Take my hand Cas.” Dean demands, swallowing hard as the angel slowly extends his and he shivers slightly at the electrifying slide of skin against skin. Cas’ fingers are warm and trembling as they entwine with his. “Don’t be afraid.”

“Dean.” Cas says his name roughly. The low, gravelly sound a punch to the gut. “I **_am_** sorry.” 

The angel looks down at their hands and up to Dean’s face then back again, pure pleasure lightening his usually stern features.

“Okay Cas.” Dean croaks as Cas’ hand tightens around his. He remembers the angel once saying that they had ‘a profound bond’ and he’s always felt it was true on his part, seeing the smile slowly curl Cas’ lips now he thinks maybe it’s more reciprocal than he’d always believed.

In a run-down motel room, the Hunter and the angel sit holding hands and for the moment, it’s enough, more than enough.

Even with ‘Highway to Hell’ dialled down low enough to be called mood music, Dean’s fingers still tap in time with the beat against the steering wheel of the Impala and he does a mental high five as they cross the state line. One down and he doesn’t care to think of how many more they have to go before they get home. 

“I like this.” Cas says unexpectedly.

“Road trips, what’s not to like. You, me, Baby and a seat load of snacks to keep us going on the open road.” Dean grins as he points to the bags of candy, potato chips and jerky scattered between them. Cas nods seriously in apparent agreement.

Satisfied, Dean takes a moment to quickly glance down at his phone to make sure there are no messages.

“You are worried about him.” 

Dean keeps his eyes on the black top ahead. A couple of days ago he’d think that Cas was referring to Sammy, but now…there’s someone else that he’s added to the list of people he’d go to war for. “I know you did some major healing of Hale’s mojo before we dumped him on Stiles and Derek, but I don’t trust him.”

“I would not expect you to considering his proximity to Stiles.”

Dean shifts slightly in his seat. “And yeah, what’s the deal with that? Why do I feel this…this connection to the kid?”

“You and he are alike.”

“That’s what Peter Hale said when he was trying to seduce me with his swivel hips. He called me a spark. He said ‘what I could do with two of you in my pack’.” 

Dean sucks in an appreciative gasp as Cas’ eyes flash dangerously.

“Many years ago, Angels walked the Earth freely and interacted with humanity regularly and from some of those interactions children were born. Nephilim.”

“From the Sons of God and the Daughters of Men.” Dean adds. “But, I thought all the Nephilim were tracked down and uh…dealt with.” 

“Some were not found for many years and in that time they had children and those children had children and so on until the grace that they carried within them was diluted down until it was little more than a-”

“Spark.” Dean finishes. Disbelief wars with horror and it’s only as he hears the blaring horn from an oncoming SUV does he realise that he’s veered into the opposite lane from shock. They swerve wildly as he corrects the Impala’s path and just ahead he can see an exit leading to an empty roadside rest stop.

Dean pulls in, turns off the engine and just sits a moment before daring to risk a glance towards Cas.

“You’re saying that I have ‘grace’. I know what that makes me Cas. According to your lore, a human with grace is an abomination.” He knows Cas wouldn't lie to him about this.

Cas shakes his head. “I have come to realise that not all Angels have acted honourably with humans and they have propagated a fear of ‘nephilim’ and their power that is unreasonable in many cases. Let me make it clear Dean that you are in no way an abomination. Yes you have grace, a very very diluted version. You will find that the majority of Hunter clans or families have a spark within their ranks, usually the first born within each generation.”

“So Sammy doesn’t? But, I’ve seen him use mountain ash and perform rituals…they’ve worked.” 

“Because **_you_** believed they would work, Sam does not possess a spark nor does the majority of humankind or any of the people you’ve helped over the years. Do you know that most humans could lay a line of salt and it would not keep anything out at all?" 

Dean's eyes widen in disbelief. It can't be true, but Cas is watching him so gravely that he can't not believe.

"You carry that within you Dean, it is why I’ve never mentioned it before. I can see your doubt and you must believe that what I say is true. You are what allows the Winchester’s to fight demons, to lay salt lines, to make a spell work. You have the spark and the belief which carries over to your brother and at one time your Father. Your spark took over when your Mother died.”

Dean puzzles it over. “And Stiles has this spark too?”

“Yes from his mother as well. You have a great deal in common with that young man, no wonder you both feel the pull towards each other so strongly.”

“Well, shit.” Dean drags his hand wearily over his face. “Is Stiles in danger from Peter Hale? He wants him in his pack pretty badly.”

Cas considers the question before replying. “No. I don’t believe so. I’ve healed the injuries to his mind and memories, it will stop the spread of that poisonous wound which was influencing him so darkly. From Derek’s description of the man before he changed, manipulative he may have been, but not psychotic. I think we saw a return of the real Peter Hale.”

The look of true horror on Peter’s face when Cas had woken him from his healing trance had been stark and no more so than when he’d seen his nephew’s face and whispered ‘Laura’. Cas had healed the butchery that the wolf’s own sister had performed on his mind when she’d torn out those memories of his unborn child to protect her pack. Another fucked-up family that made his own look real good. 

“If anything I think he will be as protective of Stiles as his mate is.” 

Dean silently mouths the word ‘mate’ and quickly decides he doesn’t want to follow that train of thought. The last he'd seen of Stiles and the Hale wolves was the younger man grabbing his laptop and preparing to research where Peter's missing child had ended up. 

The question that Dean really wants to ask hovers on his tongue, but he’s reluctant to hear how Cas will answer because he knows the Angel will give him nothing but the truth, regardless of how painful it is. His bluntness is frequently a blessing and a curse.

“Dean.” Cas rumbles his name and Dean can feel his belly tighten in reaction.

“Yeah Cas, I’m just trying to get my head around this. You know, that my great-great-great granddaddy was an Angel and threw a leg over my great-great-great grandmammy.”

“I think it is more than that.” Cas sweeps the snack bags onto the floor and slides across the bench seat until he’s pressed in close to Dean’s side. “I think you are wondering if it is your spark that draws me to you.”

Dean’s breath hitches from both the feel of Cas’ solid body against his own and the way he seems to have read his mind.

“Is it?” He asks hesitantly and can only watch as Cas’ face transforms with a look that warms Dean through every part of his body.

“No Dean, that is the very last thing that draws me in. I once told you I gripped you tight and raised you from perdition, but I think it’s you who saved me. I have seen things, felt things I would never have known without you. It’s your humanity that I adore. I see who you are Dean Winchester. Your compassion, your bravery and intelligence are just a small part of what I love about you.”

Dean can feel his face heat and the tips of his ears burn with the flush that rises through his body. Cas loves him.

“Cas.” He says brokenly, wanting so much to find the right words to tell this man who’s come to mean so much to him exactly why he loves him too. But, he’s never been good with words so he simply takes hold of the lapels of Cas’ trench coat, pulling him close and kisses him. He doesn’t hold back, putting everything he feels for his angel in hot, wet kisses that make him burn and ache.

He kisses him over and over until they’re gasping for breath and somehow Dean’s sprawling on the seat and Cas is above him and the look in his eyes is so raw and possessive that it shakes Dean right down to his very core.

“I think I like road trips.” Cas growls.

“Yeah?” Dean smirks knowingly at the heat in Cas’ eyes, the hardness against his thigh. “We’ve been on the road together before. It’s the snacks, isn’t it?”

“No, it’s you Dean.” Cas says as he leans down and kisses the smirk right off of Dean’s face. “It’s always been you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, Peter's an Alpha because seriously, as if he wouldn't bring Deucalion down.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Don't Believe a Thing They Tell You (They Lie)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20931824) by [BlaiddDrwg1982](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlaiddDrwg1982/pseuds/BlaiddDrwg1982)


End file.
